


Victor!!! with Swords

by shysweetthing



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Post-Apocalypse, slightly more angst than canon, swordfighting AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8853010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shysweetthing/pseuds/shysweetthing
Summary: A Yuuri!!! on Ice post-apocalypse swordfighting AU from Victor’s point of view.On something like hiatus.Contains:* swordfighting* pining!Victor* angst* snark* true love





	1. The Grand Prix Quarterfinals of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuuri loses a swordfighting match and gains a fan.

_October, 2086_

Normally, the second match of the Grand Prix Quarterfinals would be a festive affair, and this one has all the trappings. The lights are bright overhead; cheerful, up-tempo music plays on the overhead speakers. Announcers in twelve languages regale their audiences, and while I don’t know what they’re saying, the names of the two competitors—Katsuki Yuuri, Bradley Evans—stand out in those foreign tongues.

You would have to be at the side of the ring to know something is wrong.

I’m at the side of the ring. As the winner of the first match—and the first seeded competitor in the championship elimination bracket—my seat, a place of honor, is a mere three feet from where Katsuki is readying himself for the upcoming match. It’s close enough to make out the expression on his face.

I’ve never met Katsuki in person, but I’ve watched his matches in preparation for the championships—all the ones I could find. But as good as 3D-retina-quality video is these days, it failed to capture something vital about him. On video, Katsuki was cute. Wide, brown eyes. Cheeks that flush with exertion, tapering to a pointed chin. Snub nose that was practically made for booping.

In person, he has more of a presence. His eyebrows form a determined line. His lips press together until they’re white. And he rubs his wakizashi with oil, as if his hands could wipe away the reflection of the crowd.

Aside from the fact that he’s cute, I don’t know much about Katsuki personally. It’s his first time at the Grand Prix Championship, and so far, he’s kept to himself. He’s had a few interviews with the press, but he’s been closemouthed about his personal life. He hasn’t even mentioned his political opinions, which is rare for a swordfighter.

In the days before the championship, as the other competitors arrived, we met up. Went sight-seeing together. We joked, mingled, and got to know each other. I’d done my best to encounter Katsuki around mealtimes, or at tea, or…anywhere, really.

Until now, I’ve only ever seen him at a distance. He paced the halls, alone and restless, earbuds shutting out his surroundings. I caught a glimpse of him with his coach in an elevator earlier, arguing ardently—and quietly—in Japanese about some unknown topic.

Katsuki didn’t come up through the Junior competition, and he doesn’t have many friends. That means we don’t know where he stands on the Swordfighter’s Code. At the moment, it’s a pressing consideration for everyone.

Me in particular.

The announcers are welcoming the crowd now, explaining in three languages what we all know about this quarterfinal match of the Grand Prix.

I’m slated to fight the winner of this upcoming duel, and… I’m not looking forward to it, no matter what the outcome may be.

I know swordfighting sounds like a barbaric way to make decisions, but the aim is not to injure your opponent. It’s not like fencing—that old, outdated sport was performed with blunted weapons, incapable of real harm. It’s not the old trial by combat, either—that truly _was_ barbaric in its desire to hurt.

Modern swordfighting is something in between. It’s performed with real weapons, real edges, and the real possibility of harm. We don’t want to forget that possibility is there. Like the nations, we swordfighters have the opportunity to hurt.

We don’t take it. Not unless…

I shake my head. Six years ago, I spent rather too long dwelling on the darker side of the Swordfighter’s Code. After several overwhelming months, I decided there was no further point in thinking about it. No more asking questions. No more self-doubt. Doubt is for those whose hearts are made of soft tissue, and mine is made of sterner stuff. I’ll do what I need to.

 _Remember,_ a memory whispers, _your heart is not made of swords and glass._

I shove it aside. It’s not a real memory anyway, just something I wanted to believe when I was young and stupid.

I know what I need to do, and—if I have to—I will do it.

Deep down, I hope that Katsuki will take care of the matter for me.

Katsuki sets down his wakizashi and slowly picks up his katana. I know what it’s like when I examine my weapons before a match. It’s a way to center myself. To imagine the match, to imagine myself winning…or, in this case, losing. Losing properly.

He looks up at the moment, and our eyes meet.

 _Hello, Katsuki Yuuri,_ I think. _Who are you?_

I’ve studied Katsuki’s qualifying matches, of course—enough to know that his weapon of choice is the same as mine—a case of rappers. But he’s the seventh seed, the challenger, which means that his opponent had the right of weapon choice. Evans chose the katana/wakizashi combination. His choice of traditional Japanese blades for this fight is a subtle form of insult—one that he made not-so-subtle by announcing his reason in a pre-match interview.

Insults are not the way the world should do things anymore. That’s Swordfighter’s Code.

Katsuki’s gaze holds mine. Slowly, he flushes. He doesn’t look away. My stomach churns. That sense of something _more,_ something vital returns. I lean forward an inch…

Then the announcer calls his name. The crowd shouts and whistles, and he finally looks away from me, into the distance.

Over the next six minutes of this match, Katsuki’s performance will decide what I have to do. My hands clench into fists. Slowly, Katsuki stands, and—

And I’m getting ahead of myself. I bet you’re wondering what this is all about.

In a sense, this is all about trade—trade and politics.

You know, of course, that every nation’s ranking in trade negotiations is determined by the winners of the Grand Prix tournament. Of course, political theorists the world over have spilled liters of ink criticizing the peculiar form of kratocracy that arose in the aftermath of the Great Horror. And yes, I suppose ours _is_ a fundamentally flawed government. Government of the strong isn’t new, and it it’s rarely nice.

But capitalist democracy had its fatal flaws, too, as the Great Horror proved.

It’s the memory of that horror—a history that is impressed on swordfighters through the Code we swear to uphold—that has me on edge at the moment.

In 2018, one of the world’s superpowers, headed by a particularly erratic leader, launched a series of nuclear attacks. The missiles flew without warning. Overnight, nine major cities were turned into so much radioactive rubble. Fallout became the most pressing of many global environmental disasters. The death toll rose to billions before all was said and done.

In the aftermath of the resulting chaos, the world decided that no one country should ever be allowed to dominate the globe again. The division of global power called for a firmer, more distributed, hand.

It was an accident that swordfighting emerged as a method of determining a nation’s relative power, but it has proven a remarkable useful system.

In a normal year, announcers would only be talking about the benefits of this system and the Swordfighter’s Code.

Under the International Swordfighting Federation competitions, international advantage typically shifts from country to country on a yearly basis. This distribution of power encourages long-term fairness. No nation wants to be remembered as the asshole who played dirty just because they had a temporary boost.

Even though dueling for trade advantage may sound barbaric, it really isn’t. After a few decades of chaos, the ISF gradually came up with a system of rules and rankings that awards points for thrusts, parries, and ripostes based on difficulty.

The Swordfighter’s Code states that we don’t hurt each other. It’s bad form—downright barbaric—to cause harm. Years go by in which sprains and accidental minor nicks are the worst injuries that happen in ISF competitions. Drawing blood on purpose leads to major point deductions.

Besides, everyone knows that we swordfighters are future world leaders. We make friendships, share cultures, and come to know one another through these competitions. ISF competitions are the foundation for lasting world peace.

But there’s one other potential advantage to the way we run things. We don’t often talk about it. I don’t let myself think about it. I prefer the part of the Swordfighter’s Code that is about friendship and honor and choosing to inflict no harm.

But today, a flutter of sick nervousness occupies my belly. And I don’t usually get nervous about my own matches, let alone other people’s.

Oh. I haven’t told you about me. My name is Viktor Nikiforov. I’m twenty-seven years old and the hero of Russia. I am the first Russian swordfighter to win world victory in sixty-seven years. I’ve been a dominant swordfighter for the last ten years, and the world champion for the last five. I’ve won huge advantages for my homeland.

Despite all this—or perhaps because of what happened six years ago—I’m loved by my fellow competitors in the ISF.

I trained my whole life to take this role. If I’m lucky, I’ll continue to win for a few more years, before younger, stronger, swifter swordfighters finally eclipse me. I won’t ever be eclipsed in the history books. Not since Kgalefa Fako of Botswana had his six-year world reign in 2043 has anyone managed what I’ve done.

After I retire, I’ll either become a coach or go into politics… And who am I trying to kid? With my immense popularity and amazing good looks, everyone expects me to go into politics. Future Prime Minister of the World Council—that’s what people see in me. I tell myself that this is who I am every time I look in the mirror.

Except I may be on the verge of losing my first major international match in six years.

You see, my upcoming semifinal match will take place against the winner of this match. As much as I don’t _want_ to think about it, now—with Katsuki and Evans walking to the center of the ring, circling one another, and getting into position—I must remember the Code.

Even people who adhere to most of the Code disapprove of its darker doctrine. They believe that we have the capacity to hurt each other—but we never should. Not under any circumstances. If this is to be a government of the strong, the strong should not hurt the weak. Not even if the weak hurt those weaker than themselves.

Katsuki is focused on his blade, his eyes dark and flat. His back is straight; his right hand clenches on the hilt of his katana.

There are cheers all around—more for Katsuki than Evans, but that is because of the danger Evans represents.

The heart of the Swordfighter’s Code is this: Some horrors must never happen again. The human race is a forgetful child, eager to burn and reburn our hands on our worst choices. And our worst choices are so very, very bad. Every so often, a leader surfaces who lies. He says that the strong exist to use and hurt everyone else, and people rush to believe him.

That’s the danger Evans represents.

He won his national tournament last year, and in that time, the party he brought to prominence has resurrected language that the world has not heard in decades. The leaders of his country are talking about withdrawing from the World Council. They want to undo the equality we’ve achieved over the last half-century.

This is the downside of kratocracy. Sometimes the strong are assholes.

So we swordfighters have our code. Never again. No more horrors. We will not forget. And someone like Evans? He cannot be allowed to win his national championship two years in a row.

He must be injured so badly that he is unable to win again.

So you understand my worry now.

I don’t know Katsuki. But six years ago, I made my own choice with regard to that dark part of the code on a similar matter. I’ll do the same again—throwing away my years of advantage. My heart is the steel of swords. It’s as transparent as glass. My emotions pass through me, never touching my center.

The bell rings, signaling the start of the match. In the ring, Katsuki and Evans circle each other. Evans starts with Leyman’s gambit; Katsuki responds with Okinobe’s riposte. Evans is strong, one of the strongest I’ve seen. But Katsuki is swifter than his videos led me to believe. His dark hair swishes as he moves to the side. His hands are a blur, knocking the man’s katana to the side.

The two fighters disengage, withdraw a few feet, and circle one another, only to come back again in a swirl of blades.

Fighting with two swords is an art that not everyone masters, and at first I think that Evans is better than Katsuki. Evans is the only one attacking; it’s all Katsuki can do to keep him at bay. In my head, I’m counting the points for the match.

There’s another three minutes on the clock, and Evans is far ahead.

Evans’s katana flies forward in a Crane Attack. Katsuki executes what I think is another Okinobe’s riposte. I’m already shaking my head at the predictability of this duplication. Evans takes advantage, his weight shifting to his back leg, his katana drawing back…

That’s the moment when I realize that Katsuki’s been holding back. He does something I’ve never seen, not in twenty thousand hours of practice, not in several hundred thousand hours of watching videos. His feet shift—I’m not sure how—and his hands fly. His katana comes in low at first—Evans blocks—but Katsuki pivots from the waist, shifting his center of gravity. He shouldn’t be able to swing so fast. But he does. His wakizashi comes in high. Katsuki puts everything he has into that strike.

For a moment, I think that he’s done it.

He’ll sever Evans’s rotator cuff tendon, put him out of commission for good. But if I can see the danger, so can Evans. He has no muscle memory to tell him what to do in this circumstance. Evans moves—the wrong way—

For a split-second, I refuse to believe what I’m seeing.

The two fighters freeze. Katsuki is holding onto his short sword, his left arm extended in front of him. He looks down the shimmering line of his arm and blade with a dawning horror. Sweat beads on his forehead. That flush of exertion on his face washes away in pale realization.

The crowd grows silent.

Katsuki’s blade is embedded in Evans’s chest.

Don’t get me wrong. We swordfighters all knew something like this had to happen. But the primary purpose of the ISF is to foster friendship. Cooperation. We don’t hurt each other. We don’t _want_ to.

I can feel Katsuki’s horror as if it were my own. As if the last six years have disappeared, and I’m the one standing on the sand instead of him. My muscles feel weak.

Katsuki understands what he’s done even before the medics rush in. He lets go of both his blades. His katana falls to the sand. He doesn’t pick it up. He turns his back on the scene. His hands rub together.

He sets his hands on the wall around the ring, bowing his head while the medics work. There’s no time for them to do anything. I hear the words “aortic dissection.”

The muscles in Katsuki’s shoulders flinch as if every bit of dire news is the lash of a whip. He does not move from his spot at the edge of the ring, not until Evans is declared dead. Then, and only then, does he fall to his knees on the sand of the fighting floor. And he does what any of us swordfighters would do, were we in his shoes.

He vomits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s a little violent—I promise that even for a swordfighting AU, this is as bad as it will get. I hope you liked the first installment anyway.
> 
> A few notes: In this swordfighting AU, the “Grand Prix Final Event” is called the “Grand Prix Championship,” and it’s run as an straight-up elimination bracket. That’s why Yuuri’s round is called the “quarterfinal”—he’s qualified for the championships, after the prior qualifying events. There are also eight slots in the championship event for the same reason.
> 
> This AU is from Victor’s point of view, which means it will take us a little longer to get to Hasetsu than the show does. Please bear with me! But it does mean that you’ll get Drunk Yuuri in the next chapter.
> 
> Finally, I’m sorry if you happen to like Trump and this section offends you. I’m not apologizing; I really am sorry for you. I hope you get better.


	2. An Unexpected Dance Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter in the post-apocalyptic swordfighting AU. After Yuuri’s last somewhat disastrous swordfighting match, Victor looks for him everywhere—and eventually finds him doing not exactly what he expected. Spoilers for episode 10 here, so beware if you haven’t watched it.

I look for Katsuki throughout the remainder of the competition, but he’s nowhere to be found. Officially—according to the points—Evans is declared the winner of the quarterfinal round against Katsuki. Just as officially, Evan’s death means I advance to the final round without fighting. It’s the least gratifying win in my entire career.

I defeat Christophe in the final. Neither of us is at our best form. Nobody in the audience seems to care. As the bell rings to signal the end of the championship match I stand in the ring, heart pounding, sweat pouring off me. I scan the crowds for Katsuki. The lights are blinding, though, and I can’t see beyond the first few rows.

I look for him again at the awards ceremony. He should be here; it would be rude not to show.

Somehow, I think we’ll excuse his absence. My medal is too heavy around my neck; my smile and wave to the crowd is a rote duplication of past events.

I know what it’s like to be in Katsuki’s shoes. I remember it all too well. I want to know that he had someone to take him back to his room after his match. I need to believe someone held him and told him that he followed the Code, that it will be okay. I want to know that someone thanked him.

Most of all, I know what it’s like when nobody sees you—just your actions.

But I don’t see him or his actions for almost forty-eight hours, not until the night of the final banquet.

The post-Grand Prix banquet is a lavish affair of state, starting with canapés and champagne. Usually, we laugh and mingle with government officials and rehash the finer points of the competition. Most of the ministers of government were swordfighters themselves at one point, so they understand.

This time, our celebration is muted.

Katsuki comes in halfway through the appetizers. His coach is with him, holding onto his arm, almost as if he’s dragging his student.

The conversation halts. Katsuki raises his gaze from the ground. His eyes sweep the crowd, but he doesn’t seem to focus on any of us.

Yakov, my coach, approaches him first. He knows that I would have done what Katsuki did. I would have been disqualified. Instead, I won— _Russia_ won—because of Katsuki. And because Yakov is himself a former swordfighter, he does what any of us in his situation would do.

“Katsuki,” he announces, loud enough for the room to hear. “I owe you a personal favor.”

Katsuki looks up at him. He raises his chin an inch, then lets it drop—something close to a nod of acknowledgment. He says something back, but his voice is so quiet I can’t make him out.

He turns away.

It’s another part of our code. One person’s sacrifice is all our sacrifice; we should all acknowledge it, acknowledge _him._

As the night goes on, I see my friends try to engage Katsuki. He shrinks away. _I_ try to talk to him, but he always manages to be on the opposite side of the room as I am. Eventually, I give up. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, I won’t force it.

Katsuki parks himself next to the champagne table in the corner.

I’m not sure how much he drinks. More than he should.

The person who eventually does successfully approach him is… Yuri Plisetsky.

Yuri is many things to me. He’s a junior member of my team. He’s my protege. When he first came to the training barracks, he was my charge.

Ah. You don’t know about the Russian training barracks. I mentioned that I was Russia’s first champion in sixty-seven years? After decades of losses, the Russian government finally decided they needed to start training children earlier. Tests are administered to very young children—flexibility, strength, ambidexterity—and promising candidates are given further lessons.

At the age of six, the most promising candidates leave their families behind and are brought into the training barracks. They aren’t harsh, spartan places, no matter what the name may suggest. We’re fed well, taught about politics, and have every comfort you can imagine. Every trainee is delivered into the charge of a newly minted swordfighter. We become each other’s family.

Sometimes we don’t even remember our own.

Take me, for instance. I know my mother dropped me off—Yakov told me that much. But I don’t remember what she looked like, or what her voice sounded like. I just have pieces of memories, ones I probably made up after the fact. I used to think I would hear from her when I turned fifteen and was allowed to have a phone and contact with the outside world again, but…I never did. It doesn’t bother me.

He was tiny for his age even then. When he first came in, he hadn’t yet chosen his gender, and his hair was long down his back. He held his grandfather’s hand and looked over at the corner where I waited. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

And I have Yuri. I was there to take charge of him the day his grandfather left him at the center.

“Eat your pirozhki, Yuri,” his grandfather said in their final good-byes, “and remember that I love you.”

“Sure.” Even at six, Yuri was terse.

“Remember the song I sing to you—”

Little Yuri frowned. “ _Grandpa._ I’m going to be _okay._ Stop _worrying.”_

He was my charge. I taught him his drills. How to hold his weapons. We did flexibility training together, speed work—everything I’d learned as a child. Every night until he was nine and made me stop, I sang him his grandfather’s song.

Sounds touching, right? Maybe it was. But I was also responsible for his training.

When he was eight, I promised him that if I earned a favor from Yakov in the upcoming tournament, I would ask for Yuri to have a kitten.

I won. I asked Yakov.

He looked at me and took off his hat, turning it grumpily in his hands. “Victor, of _course_ you can use your favor to get Yuri a cat. But he’s a swordfighter. He needs to learn he can’t rely on anyone but himself. A swordfighter’s heart must be sharp steel and glass. Is it wise to let him believed otherwise?”

It wasn’t. So I let myself forget my promises to him. I watched him grow more older, more wary of me in response.

I broke my promises to him, but…

Somehow, I couldn’t let him break his promises to himself.

I wasn’t supposed to do it, but I kept in touch with his grandfather, since Yuri wasn’t allowed. Every time we had pirozhki in the dining hall, I told him how his grandfather was doing. And it worked.

Yuri doesn’t trust me, but one day soon, he will be fifteen, and he still remembers. Just because I forgot my family doesn’t mean Yuri needs to.

And Yakov was right. Every time I forgot another promise, Yuri grew more determined. He wanted harder drills heavier weapons. He demanded to start training with blades long before it was safe. Now, he challenges me to duels twice a week, and while he can’t beat me, it’s beginning to get…tiresome.

I see him go up to Katsuki.

Strange. Their given names—Yuri and Yuuri—sound almost identical. Yuri growls something I can’t hear.

Katsuki straightens. He pokes a finger into Yuri’s chest. “Fine,” he says distinctly. “But you know the rules. The challenged chooses the weapons.”

I start to walk over. Yuri is tired and perpetually grumpy, and Katsuki is definitely drunk. Neither of them is in a state to fight with deadly weapons.

The company falls silent.

Katsuki lifts his chin. “I choose dance.” Everyone can hear him.

Yuri rolls his eyes. “The hell. That’s not an ISF sanctioned dueling choice. It’s not even a weapon, dumbass.”

Katsuki just spreads his arms, as if to say, _Come and get me._

I step between them. At first, I intend to stop this madness before it can start.

But for the first time, Katsuki’s gaze isn’t on the carpet. His eyes sparkle. He looks up at me in defiance.

If there were any justice in the world, he should have been in the semifinals. _He_ should be feted as the winner right now. He was the one who did what needed to be done. And I am not going to take that sparkle away.

“This isn’t an ISF sanctioned competition,” I say. “Come on, Yuri. You can’t issue a challenge and walk away just because you don’t like the weapon. You’re a swordfighter.”

“This is ridiculous,” Yuri snarls. “Just because moron here can’t get his head out of his ass—”

Katsuki simply lifts a hand, gesturing, and someone scrambles to start the music. It’s a punk song, one with a heavy beat and squealing guitars.

Yuri does his best, but we don’t dance much in the training barracks. Besides, Katsuki has an edgy anger to him that fits the music. His hands go up in the air, then fly down. His mouth forms a grim, determined line. He is a graceful, angry drunk—and by unanimous consent, he’s crowned the winner at the end.

He folds his arms and looks at the room. “Who’s next?” he asks in a challenging voice.

I don’t know what prompts me to speak. “I am.”

Everyone knows the challenged chooses the weapon. Katsuki takes one liquid stride toward me, than another. We look into each other’s eyes.

“One problem,” I say very quietly, for his ears only. “I can’t dance.”

“You can’t dance.” He frowns as he repeats this, as if he doesn’t understand what he’s hearing. His eyes narrow as he look up at me.

I’m more surprised that he _does_ know how to dance. Those hours of weapons practice have taken their toll. All my life, I’ve been a tool. I’ve been a weapon in someone else’s hand.

I expect him to tell me that he’ll win easily.

Instead, he takes a step closer to me. His voice, when he speaks, is low and seductive. “Dancing is easy,” he says. “It’s like rapier fighting. Just follow my lead.”

“I’ll look like an idiot.”

His fingers brush my wrist, and he gives me a brilliant, drunken smile. “Victor,” he says, “you know I would never let you.”

He says this as if we know each other. As if we are friends, or perhaps even lovers.

I don’t know the first thing about him. Except… Maybe I do. Our eyes meet again, and I feel like I know him the way I know my own hands. I don’t know have to guess how they’ll move. They just _do._ It’s not the first time I’ve looked at him with a flutter in my belly. This time, though, it’s not nervousness. It’s a sense of heightened anticipation. Something is about to happen.

He takes five paces back from me. Stops. Turns to look at me. We stand five feet apart, at dueling range. This is familiar.

He snaps his fingers, and music starts again—this time a flamenco that he’s ordered. He raises his hand as if he had a rapier in it, and I respond instinctively, drawing my own arm back. My feet move on their own, shifting, sliding, following his own careful steps. He moves in; I follow. Our wrists tap in gentle imitation of a sword lock.

This is the only chance we may ever get to speak. “Thank you,” I whisper.

He pulls back, recoiling from my gratitude, and I retreat to a safe distance. Our eyes meet. His hand telegraphs a move; I respond, and he steps into the gap I leave behind.

I’m not sure how he knows me so well. He knows how I’ll extend my hand, where I will place my feet, the precise way I flick my wrist at the end of a stroke. He knows how to lead me so perfectly, I begin to wonder if I _would_ have won a semi-final duel against me. He must have prepared to meet me for years, the way he knows my moves.

“You can’t blame yourself. You did it for the Code.” Our hands brush once more. His eyes are dark stars in the middle of the banquet hall. We have an audience, but it is just like swordfighting—I can’t spare them a moment of attention. His hand locks with mine; he steps back, pulling me with him.

“Screw the Code,” he says in a low voice. “I did it for you.”

I don’t understand what he means at first. But his arm curls around me, and now we’re dancing, not even pretending to fence. Katsuki—no, we’ve gone beyond last names, and I can’t think of him as anything other than Yuuri any more—guides me around the room. His hand is warm against my back. He dips me…

…and for an instant, he bends his head to mine. His lips are so close, I can feel the heat of his breath. I can smell the champagne wafting off him. I could get drunk on his kisses.

“You have the weight of too many choices on your shoulders,” he tells me. “You didn’t need this one.”

I never told anyone about the months after that…other time. How did Katsuki know? Our eyes have not left each other’s, not for untold minutes. The music feels like the pulse of my blood through my veins, the beat of a heart I shouldn’t have.

I don’t know what I’m feeling. I want with parts of me that I believed were properly frozen. I’ve spent all my life being Russia’s hero. Meeting other people’s needs. For years, I thought I’d defeated my stupid desire to have someone care for me, the real me.

Apparently not.

I’m still vulnerable. I discovered my weakness the day my first lover used me for his own political aims. I’ve learned since then to hold tight to my heart, to make it into the prism of swords and glass it needs to be.

But however close his lips come, they don’t brush mine. The music ends. We look into each other’s eyes…

I scramble upright.

“Yuuri is the winner!” I declare, before anyone has a chance to say otherwise. “I wouldn’t have had a chance without him to lead me.”

I’m not sure what I was expecting him to say. Or do. But he throws his arms around me. “My family owns a hot springs,” he says loudly. “Come, when the season is over.”

Yuuri is lovely, with his wide luminous eyes. If he’s offering his body, though…that will be a thing I can have, just for me.

“My turn,” Christophe is saying. “My turn to challenge you to dance.”

“Come,” Yuuri says. “Be my coach.”

I don’t answer.

Yuuri allows Christophe to lead him away, to set up for their challenge. Christophe finds a pole somewhere—a _pole,_ for God’s sake—and somehow, Yuuri knows what to do with this, too. He may be dancing with Christophe, but it’s my eyes he meets as he spins around the pole. It’s me he looks at, again and again. His pants come off, revealing muscled thighs. His shirt is next. His tie he keeps as a sweatband.

It’s my turn to drink, and drink I do. I drink to hide the flush of pure erotic pleasure that goes through me as I watch. I drink because the champagne will never be as intoxicating as the gleam of sweat on Yuuri’s naked skin.

A hot springs. A family. Yuuri has a _family_ that he _remembers._ The whole thing sounds impossibly, cloyingly sweet. I don’t know how to comprehend a hot springs, a family, and…

And Yuuri, looking at me as he spins around the pole, like I’m a morsel he wants to eat.

I drink more.

If I had my way, I’d be consumed. Tonight. Nibble by nibble. My room is free, and hell—

The music winds down. Yuuri’s declared the winner yet again.

I start toward him, a fire of lust and want consuming me.

And that’s when Yuuri’s coach walks in the room. “Yuuri,” he says, in a disappointed voice. “What are you doing?”

I can see the moment when the fire leaves Yuuri’s eyes. When the liquid courage he has swallowed turns to doubt. He looks around the room. Looks down.

“Get your pants,” his coach scolds.

Yuuri lets himself be drawn away, and I watch him go.

I can’t watch him go. “Yuuri,” I call.

Our eyes meet one last time.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I hold up fingers. _Five. Six. Two._ My room number.

Yakov warned me once that I was vulnerable. The way I took to Makkachin, the way that I used to make pirozhki for Yuri to remind him of his grandfather. My heart is like faceted glass—it reflects every light that shines in its direction, and if I don’t guard it, it will shatter all too easily.

I know precisely how vulnerable I am. It’s ridiculous to dance with someone for five minutes and pretend that I know him. I know it’s impossible for my flesh to remember the press of his hand against my thigh, the warmth of his lips scant millimeters from mine.

But I down another glass of champagne, and I want to discard all rationality. I remember Yuuri’s words whispering in my ears. _I did it for you. You have the weight of too many choices on your shoulders. You didn’t need this one._

I don’t know the last time someone did something for me, not without expecting something in return.

That night, I go back to my room, my glass heart pinned to my sleeve. I would give Yuuri anything if he arrives. Instead, I wait, watching the minutes tick away. I drink more champagne for hope, and then, as that hope grows cold and withers, I drink it to forget.

Yuuri never comes.

I wake the next morning, cold, head pounding with a devil of a hangover. I am most definitely alone.

I rationalize what must have happened for weeks. Yuuri was with his coach. He had a rough week. Maybe he didn’t understand the invitation. Maybe he was too drunk to count my fingers. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

Maybe, I should have held on to him the way he held me—tightly, and without any possibility of letting go.

I track down every video I can find of him. Interviews—too few, and he’s too quiet. Competitions—past, present.

I watch him flub his national competitions. I realize he won’t be at world’s.

It takes me months to realize that I’ve fallen in love with Yuuri with every facet of my cold, glass heart. And by the time I discover it, it’s too late. He’s out of my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Welcome to the second installment. I hope you like it. We’ve only had hints of Victor’s background in canon, so with this installment I’m taking some pretty radical liberties… A lot of them, which hopefully will explain a little more of Yuri and Victor. Hey, it’s Victor’s point of view—we have to get his backstory. Finally, my drunk Yuuri is perhaps slightly more subdued than canon-Yuuri. Cut him some slack. He just killed a man.


	3. Easy as Pirozhki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor acquires a little more of his own backstory, and makes a decision.

When I said it takes me months to realize I’m in love, I mean it. Months.

At first, I scarcely even notice I’m smitten. I’m a swordfighter; I understand discipline. There’s Russia’s national competition to prepare for, then the world championships that determine the composition of the World Council. A disciplined mind does not waver, and I spend twenty-three hours and twenty-seven minutes out of ever day determinedly not thinking about Yuuri.

The other thirty-three minutes, though…

I have a few pictures from the banquet that I revisit again and again. I watch Yuuri’s matches in the Japanese national tournament—which are a complete disaster.

I tell myself to be reasonable. We spoke for five minutes. We exchanged a touch or three. I’ve forgotten men who gave me a lot more for a lot longer. It’s an accident that I feel this connection, and if I ignore it long enough,my feelings will go away.

The month before the world championship, Yuri Plisetsky turns fifteen. For us Russian swordfighters in the training barracks, this is an important age. It’s the day we’re issued a phone, allowed to use the internet without much supervision, and can be contacted by our families.

For years before that day, swordfighters-in-training imagine what will happen. “Do you think your mother will come?” “What about your brother? How do you suppose he’s doing?”

When your family leaves you at six years of age, it’s hard to hold onto memories, especially when nobody around you knows them. Most of us swordfighters retain a few fleeting hints of their past, faded glimpses that they carry around like treasured possessions.

When I was nine, someone asked me about my family, and I realized that I had no memories. Nothing. I didn’t know where I came from or if I even had a family.

I set out to remember with the determination that I did everything else. Every night, before I went to sleep, I commanded my mind to recall something. One thing. A mother. A father. A sister. A brother. Anything—even a house.

For months, my mind offered up nothing but blankness.

One night, though, I remembered. I remembered a hand on my face. Someone leaning down to me. I remembered a woman—pretty, light-haired, eyes blue like mine.

I remembered her putting her forehead next to mine, her hands on my shoulders, gripping me tight.

 _Vitya, don’t let them make you forget,_ she told me. _Your heart is not made of swords and glass._

It took me years to reason out that this was a daydream, not a memory. First, memories are like plants: if you don’t tend them, they wither and die. Once they’re gone, they’re truly gone. They don’t come bounding back simply because you _want_ them to.

Second, “heart of sword and glass” is one of Yakov’s sayings. How could my _mother_ know what Yakov was going to tell me?

That is why there is a fullness in my heart on Yuri’s fifteenth birthday. I know Yuri’s grandfather will be waiting at the gate. And I know that Yuri remembers.

I’ve had to do a lot to him, but I made sure that he remembered.

It’s worth all the blankness deep inside me, all those missing years that I no longer want to recall, to meet the elderly Mr. Plisetsky at the gates. He shakes my hand; I conduct him to the room where his grandson awaits.

“Yuri,” he says. “Yuri, it’s been so long.”

Yuri charges at him, grabbing him in a ferocious hug. They whisper words to each other, words of love, and his grandfather opens a sack and removes some pirozhki.

“You chose a gender,” his grandfather is saying. “I’m sorry I missed the party, but we threw one for you back home when we had the news.”

“It’s okay,” Yuri says. “I always knew you were there.”

Love is as easy as pirozhki: If you want to keep having it, you have to keep eating it.

On my fifteenth birthday, nobody came for me. I went to the visitation room and waited. Nobody sent me emails. Nobody called me. I waited, and waited, until after seven hours, Yakov sent me out to do training exercises.

I slip out of the room where Yuri and his grandfather are exchanging food and hugs before they can wish me gone.

I have my own training exercise, one I’ve been making more strenuous every day since the Grand Prix tournament. It’s one that I practice with blades. It’s designed to push me to the limits of my speed, my flexibility, my strength. Yakov has threatened to put me in lockdown if I keep at it; it’s too much, he says. I’ll injure myself.

I don’t care.

There are camera crews here today, gathering footage for the upcoming world tournament. But I step onto the training grounds, think of pirozhki, and forget they exist.

I’m not sure who I’m fighting in my head. I’m fighting Jean-Phillipe Poitier. Bradley Evans. I’m countering the attacks of dead men. I’m fighting off my lingering wistfulness for Katsuki Yuuri, and the rapier moves that turned into a dance. I’m fighting my own desires, beating them back so they’ll fit in the cage of my life.

I fight until there’s nothing left in me but exhaustion.

I set down my weapons. The camera crews surround me like the bars of a prison, and I smile and answer all their questions.

I conduct them breezily over the training grounds. I introduce them to Makkachin, the two-headed poodle that I adopted years ago. I talk as if I can’t stop. I smile as if nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong. This is who I am; this is what I have. I don’t need anything else.

#

I win the world championship for the fifth year in a row. It means precisely that much.

#

Yuuri isn’t here, and I can’t bring myself to celebrate. I call it an early night and fall asleep cuddling my dog.

In my dream, I’m sitting on the steps of the pool in the Sochi hotel where I met Yuuri. The water is cool but not cold, and Yuuri is sitting on the cement edge next to me, dangling his feet in the water.

He’s not saying anything. I touch his foot with my hand, wait for him to pull away.

He doesn’t. The water warms by degrees as I slide my hand up his leg. My fingers reach his knee. I turn, water swishing around me, so I’m facing him.

Yakov is standing right behind Yuuri, glaring at me. “Vitya?” he says. _Bang, bang._

I wake with a strangled cry.

“Vitya?” Yakov calls. He’s knocking on my hotel door. “I know you’re in there. You’re not asleep yet, are you?”

I rub my bleary eyes. Makkachin whines in protest and snuggles against me, pressing his heads into my chest. Yakov is now cockblocking me even in my dreams. Fantastic.

I untangle myself from my dog, grab a robe, and open the door.

Yakov isn’t one for praise, not even for the five-time-in-a-row world champion. He looks at my disheveled appearance, rolls his eyes, and comes in.

“Victor.” The word is almost a growl. “You should be mingling downstairs. Swordfighting won’t last forever, and you have to think of the connections you’ll make. Those will define the rest of your life.”

I have nothing to say in response.

He sighs and pats my shoulder, which for him is as good as a hug. “I suppose it’s not so bad. You need to take a little break, give your body time to relax, or you’re going to hurt yourself. You’ve years left to win if you can maintain this form.”

There’s nothing left inside me, nothing but the swords and glass he made of me. He’s probably right; I can continue to win. I probably will.

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then he hands me a piece of paper. It’s a URL—a URL and a passcode.

“I should have given you this months ago,” he says. “I suppose it’s just selfishness that I withheld it. I didn’t want you distracted for the world championships, and you never asked for it, after all.”

I take the paper, uncomprehending.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

I don’t know what he’s left me. I bring up the URL on my phone and enter the passcode.

Behind the protective wall, there are a handful of files. The first is a video. I click in confusion, expecting to see a replay of my championship match, perhaps with his commentary about how I can improve.

But the video starts in one of the visitation rooms back at the training barracks. Just like the place where I first met Yuri and his grandfather. Where they ate pirozhki together.

The first person who enters the room is Vlad. _Young_ Vlad. I frown. Vlad was given charge of me when I first arrived at the training barracks. After two years, he suffered a serious injury and washed out; by then, I was so advanced that they put me directly under Yakov. I don’t know why Yakov wants me to see a video of young Vlad.

The door to the room opens. A woman walks in. She has beautiful grey-blond hair. She’s holding the hand of a child.

Oh. It’s me.

I’m not sure why my eyes are stinging. I’m not sure what this means to me. She has my blue eyes.

She bends down in front of me. She sets her forehead against mine. I can almost feel her tenderness in the memory I’ve convinced myself I shouldn’t have.

“Vitya,” she says, “don’t let them make you forget. Your heart is not made of swords and glass. You were made to love first. All of this? It comes after.”

I watch her hand me over to Vlad. I watch myself look over my shoulder. I see her give a little wave of her hand as I go out the door. She holds her smile until I leave. Then she bunches in on herself, sobbing in grief.

I swipe at my eyes and move on.

My mother’s name is Elena Nikiforov, and there are other files about her. _Swordfighting_ files. My mother was a swordfighter?

I find a video of her being dropped off at the training barracks. She must have been one of the first to enter. She’s given into the charge of…

Yakov?

Yakov, eighteen himself, young and determined. He takes my mother’s hand and guides her out of the room.

I stare at the screen in confusion. Yakov knew my mother.

I go through the rest of the files in a fog of confusion. I’m not sure what is happening to me. My mother died of cancer when I was eleven. Yakov knew. He _knew,_ and he let me wait for her for all those long hours.

A shiver runs through me. Why _should_ he have told me? I was fifteen; I didn’t remember her. Why make me experience grief for someone I didn’t even know?

I pass through the stages of understanding what Yakov never told me like it’s a sickness. I fight off a wave of fevered heat, then a shaking coldness. I spend ten minutes sobbing for no reason. At the end, I’m left exhausted.

I’m brought back to reality by Makkachin. People thought I was crazy for adopting a mutant. They said he wouldn’t live long. I didn’t care. I found him when he was a puppy. He’d been tossed aside to die, and…

And I didn’t care. Makkachin is the closest thing I have to family.

He sidles next to me on the couch where I’m lying, setting his paws on my shoulders, insinuating himself around me. One of his heads licks my face. The other rests against my shoulder. I hold him tightly, trying to make sense of who I am.

“Everything feels different,” I tell him, and his right head huffs in acknowledgment.

That’s when my phone pings. It’s a text from Christophe.

 _Victor,_ he says. _Maybe I shouldn’t send this, but you and Yuuri really seemed to hit it off in Sochi. You asked me if I’d seen him here, and well… This is making the rounds._

It’s another video. I click on it and read the title.

I’m not sure my heart can take another video. In the last months, I have tried to discipline myself on the subject of Katsuki Yuuri. I don’t much think about him, and despite how important he feels, it hasn’t been hard. It’s as simple as not thinking about my lungs. He has been a part of me every day since the Grand Prix Championship, but I haven’t needed to acknowledge that fact.

I’m raw and bruised and…

And I hit play anyway. Yuuri is on a training grounds somewhere near his home, if the Japanese writing I see on the rink is any guide. He holds his rapiers in front of him. His expression is serious; his knees are slightly bent. And then he moves.

For a moment, I don’t know how he’s duplicating my training program. Then I remember that the crews filmed me on Yuri’s birthday. The entire world must have seen my impossible, stupid training program, the one I’ve been doing to forget.

Yuuri looks like he’s doing it to remember. He must recognize the moves from his own match. He must know he’s facing Evans again, but he does it without flinching. He must understand that I’m trying to fight him off, that my dip at the end is a rejection of his invitation, but he does it anyway.

He knew me so well on the basis of so little. If he knows how I move, how I think, he has to know there’s nothing real left inside me.

When Yuuri finishes, he looks at the camera and smiles. He’s asking me to remember him.

God. I’d forgotten his smile. I swallow.

I’ve let go of so much. If I forget any more, I’m not sure I’ll even remember myself.

I reach out and touch his image on my screen. I touch his mouth. This is the moment when I realize that I’m in love, that I have been ever since that last banquet. It’s taken me this long to figure it out, probably because I don’t know what love means or if I’m capable of it.

I don’t think. If I think, I’ll let myself remember what I’m walking away from. I’ll remember that I could be listed as the greatest swordfighter in all of history. I’ll remember that everyone expects me to be the future Prime Minister of the World Council.

Thinking has brought me here, and here is strangling me. So I don’t think. I just _do._ I book a solar glider to Japan, snap a leash on Makkachin, and make arrangements for my things to be packed.

In the end, love is as easy as pirozhki. If you want to keep having it, you have to keep eating.

And I’m starving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your encouragement so far! I’m glad people are enjoying this. This is the point where we get a little more angst, and a little more pining!Victor.
> 
> Next stop: Hasetsu. Er, actually, there will be a _tiny_ piece before Victor arrives in Hasetsu—but Yuuri will definitely return. :D


	4. Posters along the way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor arrives in Hasetsu, and nothing goes to plan. Even though he doesn't have plans.

When I say that I don’t think before I leave Russia, I mean it. Swordfighting taught me incredible mental discipline. You can’t get distracted in the ring. You can’t perform by rote. You can’t let your mind wander off to thoughts of some other time. That’s how good swordfighters lose matches.

I am good at not thinking. I don’t think at all as the solar glider lifts off, the engine whirring until it pops above the clouds and hits gliding altitude. We have the unmanned craft to ourself, me and Makkachin, and while there’s scarcely room to stand, I do. I brandish pretend sabres, switching them from hand to hand, practice crouching poses and swift attacks. I fight myself until I’m exhausted.

I don’t really think even then. I drift in and out of sleep. For some reason, that dream I had of Yuuri returns. I’m in the pool in Sochi. He’s next to me. I turn to him, my body almost weightless in the water. I spread his knees apart, my hands traveling up his muscled thighs. His fingers brush mine—I’m not sure if he’s stopping me or encouraging me, and I look up to meet his eyes.

For years, sex has been the only thing that’s disturbed my baseline numbness. It’s a short interlude of heat and kisses and escalating pleasure, releasing, spiraling for a handful of minutes. In the end, I always sink back into darkness.

I kiss Yuuri’s knee, and he lets out a reverent sigh.

I wonder what it will be like to have sex with someone I actually seem to care about.

My lips travel up his thigh. My tongue traces the line of his tendon, and a melody starts playing…

My eyes open. There is no pool, and I’m alone. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m encompassed by the faint glow of the solar glider’s display, indicating the battery level and estimated arrival time. The stars are bright overhead; beneath me, stringy clouds stretch over inky water.

The melody from my dream is still playing. This is because it’s not a melody; it’s Yakov’s ring tone.

That man has the worst timing.

I pull myself upright and finger-comb my hair into some semblance of tidiness before answering.

His eyes bore into me on the screen. “Victor. Why are you not in your hotel room?”

Once, his disapproval would have made me jump. I would have done anything to make his frown go away. But I’ve fielded his complaints for so long that they’re meaningless now. One world championship was not enough for him. _Five_ world championships was not enough for him. I am never going to be enough for him, and I no longer care.

I give him a bright smile and swivel my phone so he can see my surroundings. “I’m on my way to Japan.”

Silence meets this. I’m far enough away that the speed of light lags our communication. His image skips, and the sound cuts out for a second before the satellite connection kicks in.

“Well.” Yakov’s voice is gruff. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too upset. I’m not even surprised, all things considered. I did tell you to take a little time to relax. When will you be back?”

My hands feel clammy. I’m not sure how much of me he can see in this dim lighting, but I show no weakness. “I hadn’t planned on returning.”

“So impulsive.” On the vid screen, he shakes his head. “You never plan anything, you know. That puts everyone else out, trying to predict you. Let’s say a week. Then you can come back, and we’ll start laying out a training schedule for next year.”

I suspect he is purposefully misunderstanding me. “I’m not coming back. I quit.”

His face goes blank first, then clouds over. “Victor. What the hell are you talking about? We are counting on you. Russia is counting on you. _I_ am counting on you.”

My smile stays on my face. He taught me to hold firm. He taught me that everyone wanted to use me, and that I needed to be nothing but swords to the outside world to keep them at bay. Emotions go through me; nobody can see them. I don’t feel anything at all at the idea of letting him down. I don’t mind if he hates me for the rest of my life. Yakov has been teaching me how to leave him from the day we first met.

“Dasvidanya.” I cut the connection before he can see my hands shaking. I collapse next to Makkachin. And because I’m tired in all possible ways, I accidentally do the thing I have been trying not to do.

I think.

Not thinking up until the moment I am flying over the Sea of Japan? Possibly not the greatest choice I have ever made.

Not thinking means not asking questions, and it turns out, I have a _lot_ of questions.

Question one: I’ve only ever thought about having sex with Yuuri. Do I show up on his doorstep with a handful of condoms and a smile? How exactly is that going to work? My plan has an embarrassing number of blank steps.

Question two: What on earth do I tell Yuuri? He never even gave me his phone number. And yet here I am.

I clear my throat and try out the truth. “Yuuri! Hello! You invited me here while you were drunk. By the way, I love you.”

Even Makkachin’s left head looks dubious, and Makkachin’s left head believes _everything_ I say.

I sound ridiculous. Yuuri won’t believe me. _I_ hardly believe me. I could spill the whole story—my mother, his program, our dance…

I try again. “Hi, Yuuri. I dream about going down on you in swimming pools.”

This scenario is not playing out well in my head.

I can’t just land on Yuuri’s doorstep saying, “Hello, I’m sure you’ve noticed that we haven’t talked in _four entire months,_ but here I am.”

(Questions three through five: What if he thinks I’m crazy? Is it still considered stalking if he asked me to come? How hard is it to get a restraining order in Japan?)

Question six: Why am I here? I could say that I’ve come on vacation, but vacations end. He’ll expect me to leave after a few days, and the thought of returning to Russia is terrifying. No; I need an excuse to stay. Something like…

 _Victor,_ I remember Yuuri saying. _Be my coach._

I contemplate my dim reflection in the glider’s windows. “That has potential.”

(Questions seven through nine: Doesn’t one usually arrange details of coaching ahead of time? Aren’t there contracts involved? On a scale of zero to forever, how long will it take one to get laid if one approaches one’s potential lover with a lawyer in tow?)

I brush these irrelevancies aside. “I’ve never been a coach. The closest I’ve come is with Yuri, and that’s been somewhat…interesting.”

Question ten: Can I even do this?

My reflection looks back at me with a raised eyebrow. “I’m being too hard on myself. I’ve been great at everything I’ve ever tried to do. Hell, I’ve been the best in the entire world for five years straight.”

We look at each other, my reflection and I, as if we’re Makkachin’s separate heads, unsure whether to love indiscriminately or hide forever.

“Of course,” I whisper, “I’ve only ever tried to do one thing. I’m not so much a master of general competence. More like an incredibly hyper-specialized datapoint.”

Makkachin rubs his right head against me, and I sigh and hug him harder.

His heads don’t exactly have separate personalities. In some ways, they are very much the same dog. They prefer the same kinds of food, love playing the same kinds of games. But there are differences. Makkachin’s left head is undiscriminating. She is loving and affectionate, and will eat anything she can get her mouth around. Makkachin’s right head learns faster. She’s a little more shy and needs to be won over by strangers.

I’ve had Makkachin for fifteen years now. I found her as a puppy when I was a junior competitor at a match in Toronto—tied in a sack and thrown in a trash can. She was six weeks old at the time and unweaned. Even a regular puppy should not have survived. Yakov only let me keep her because mutant animals rarely live long.

But Makkachin didn’t know that. She grew. She thrived. Most two-headed animals like snakes and sharks die quickly because the heads never learn to get along. But dogs are social animals, and Makkachin adjusted.

And there’s some kind of magic in her mutant genes. Her vet, after years of confusion, took numerous tissue samples and then babbled excitedly to me about stem cell production and no loss of regenerative potential. I’m not a scientist. All I know is that she’s still as active as a puppy.

“You’re right.” I rub her heads while she moans in approval. “I’ve also been good at having a dog. Being a coach can’t be that hard, right?”

Her back leg thumps against my rubbing hand.

“Besides,” I continue, “I don’t like to boast, but Yuuri is pretty obviously interested in me, too. The rough part will be getting started. I’m sure everything will work itself out once we get going.”

#

It’s morning when the train dumps me at Hasetsu Station. I’ve only dozed, on and off, in the last thirty-six hours, and my exhaustion is beginning to wear on me. It’s snowing as I arrive, and Makkachin is delighted to poke her nose into every last drift. I’ve mapped a route to the onsen where Yuuri lives. Makkachin gambols beside me on the way there, happy to stretch her legs after all that travel.

I introduce myself to Yuuri’s parents—“Viktor Nikiforov,” I say.

They say something back in Japanese, and after a bit of negotiation, we settle on English as a common tongue. They pet Makkachin’s left head and hold out a treat.

I intercept it before she can gobble it up. “Ah. No. She can’t have treats, not until I check the ingredients. She’s a mutant, so some perfectly normal foods have different toxicity for her than other dogs.”

The woman who is Yuuri’s mother gives me a blank smile. Which…should not be a surprise. I had to memorize the English explanation myself. “My dog has mutated digestive proteins and no common sense” isn’t part of the standard conversational English one learns while interacting with tourists.

“Allergies,” I try instead, and she nods in understanding. “Is Yuuri here?”

“Oh!” Her smile widens. “Yes! You know Yuuri? Are you a fan?”

I don’t pause long. “Of course.” It’s basically true.

We finally manage to communicate that Makkachin will explore outdoors a little bit, and since there are no rooms ready, I’ll go into the onsen.

My weariness settles over me as I sink into the hot water. My muscles are subtly aching, and the heat is welcome. Hell; I won the world championship, went back to my hotel room, and hopped on a solar glider. I’ve been traveling for more than twenty-four hours.

It’s only a matter of time before Yuuri discovers I’m here. I’m still considering my approach, choosing my words carefully.

 _Yuuri. I can’t stop thinking about you._ Too clingy; too vulnerable.

_Yuuri, when you performed my training routine, did you by any chance—_

Just as bad. Talking about the training routine might lead to a discussion of my other discoveries…was it just last night that this all happened? I’m still too bruised to consider telling about it. Plus, Yuuri was so confident when we talked. If I’m going to be his coach, I need to be as confident as he is.

I still haven’t decided what I’m going to say, but… Yakov is right. I _am_ impulsive. It’s not a detriment; I’m best when I make decisions in a split-second.

I let the warmth of the water wash away all the worries of the last day. I tell myself that it will work out. Finally, the door bangs open.

Yuuri is wearing a heavy coat and glasses, which instantly steam up. He advances toward me.

All these months. All these feelings. They wrap around me, flustering me. I’d forgotten how much cuter he was in person.

“Victor.” He says my name in disbelief.

I’m totally, completely naked beneath the surface of the water. Inside, my nervousness writhes. Everything depends on this moment. I can’t mess it up. I _won’t._

And I’ve been trained to deliver under pressure. I compress my nerves into my brightest possible smile. I stand up, water sheeting off my body. Yes, I’m naked, but there’s no room for embarrassment here. I shove all my quiet protests into my smile. I extend my hand to Yuuri exactly the way he did to me when we danced.

“Yuuri,” I say. “As of today, I’m your coach.”

He stops in place. I could not have conveyed everything I feel—everything I want from him—any more perfectly if I’d planned the damned thing. I’ve given an upfront reason and alluded to our time together. My grin spreads. I _nailed_ it.

For a moment, there’s no response but the splash of water in the hot spring and the sound of his breath.

Then Yuuri shakes his head, my first indication that somehow, _somehow,_ this introduction was not as magically perfect for him as it was for me.

Instead of taking my hand, he scrambles backwards. And he says one word: “Huh?”

#

It turns out that I did not ask myself enough questions before. I’ve managed to temporarily retreat by dint of pretending to be asleep, in order to figure out the terrain.

First—this should have occurred to me before now—but Yuuri drunk on an entire bottle of champagne is not precisely the same as sober Yuuri with his parents at his side. Obviously. I realized that on some level. But I’m now well-acquainted with one massive, salient difference: Sober Yuuri is substantially less likely to shuck his pants at the slightest provocation.

Second, Yuuri and his family speak Japanese. I have enough skill in the language to ask where the train station is and to understand the answer. Right now, Yuuri is talking swiftly with a small group of other people, and I recognize my name. That’s it.

My mind, however, is excellent at imagining what they must be saying. The dialogue in my head goes something like this:

Yuuri’s mother: Who is this crazy loon?

Yuuri: I asked him to be my coach when I was drunk. I can’t believe he thought I was serious.

Some woman I don’t know: Why is he wearing nothing but a robe?

Yuuri: I’m so embarrassed on his behalf! I’m pretty sure he fell for me. I hate it when those swordfighter boys do that. There’s too much sexiness in me to be tied down to any one man.

This is probably my cue to refuse to wallow in my own head any longer. I shift, turning, and wake up. Er, “wake up.”

Yuuri is watching me. The last time I was this close to him, we were dancing. He told me he would never let me look like an idiot, and I…

I still believe him. I have no idea what he just said about me, but when our eyes meet, it’s just like it was in the banquet hall. Everyone else seems to fall away. His cheeks flush a light pink. He turns his head, as if he doesn’t even want me to look at him…

…Possibly because his mother is in the room, I remind myself. I have no idea how people react around parents, having never had any myself. But I have to imagine that flirting with your mother in the room is something like how I’d feel trying to put the moves on someone with Yakov glaring over my shoulder.

Instead, we talk. I do my best to sound like a coach, and strangely enough, everyone seems to accept that I can be one.

Mentally, I make a list of everyone who has cockblocked me. Bradley Evans, for being a piece of shit. If it hadn’t been for him, I might have faced Yuuri in the semifinals. I’d have figured out that he knew me ridiculously well. Hell, maybe Yuuri would have won. We would have had dinner together that night. After Evans… Well, Christophe, dammit. Yuuri and I were _dancing_ and _talking_ and Chris had to get in on the dance battle thing, too. I love the man, but he didn’t have to show off for his husband with _Yuuri._

Then Yuuri’s coach, for dragging him away. Yakov, twice, just because. His entire family right now. Minako, his ballet teacher, who is inexplicably here. Finally, there’s the biggest cockblocker of them all: Me, because I took months to get back in touch with him.

But that’s all done. I’ve managed to make it through the hard part. I’m here. He accepts me. And I have an excuse to stay.

Now all I have to do is get him alone.

#

I do, an hour later. He shows me up to the room where I’ll be staying. I wait until I’m sure nobody else is near. Then I do what I’ve been waiting to do all this time. I lean forward, and I touch him.

His eyes widen as my fingers brush his chin. A deep rose spreads across his cheeks. God, I had forgotten how utterly adorable he is.

“Yuuri,” I say, “we should build trust in our relationship.”

My fingers slip down his shoulder, down his arm, and he lets out a little shiver. I love the way his breath stops in anticipation. I lean in…

He practically jumps out of the room.

What the hell. There’s nobody here. I have no idea what’s going on. Did I _imagine_ him asking to come here? Am I misremembering him telling me that would never let me look like an idiot? What am I missing?

“Why are you running away?” I ask.

“I don’t know!” He shakes his head.

He is definitely running. He retreats to his room and slams the door.

I have no idea what is going on.

This is the first time I’ve ever been in love with anyone. It sounds conceited when I turn it over in my head, but I’ve never actually had to _try_ to seduce anyone before. I just let people know I was interested, and most of the time, things just happened from there. Sometimes they didn’t, but since I never really cared that much before, I never thought anything of it.

I didn’t think I was going to have to try to seduce Yuuri. Hell, I thought _he_ would seduce _me._ He’s already done it once.

Was he confused by the coach thing? Does he not realized that I’m interested? Maybe I was just not clear enough.

#

I clip my fingernails. I wash myself very carefully. I leave absolutely nothing to chance. Then I go to his room and knock on the door.

“Yuuri,” I say. “We should sleep together.”

That’s out there, then. No possibility for misinterpretation.

His voice comes through the door. “No!”

Well. Fuck.

I retreat to my room. I’m not sure what I’ve done. It was easy to walk away from everything when I thought all I had to do was show up.

Now…

I pull up my photos from the banquet. I look at his expression, that cocky, sure smile. I remember the feel of his hand on my thigh. I wasn’t imagining it. I wasn’t, I wasn’t. It really happened, and I don’t know what’s changed.

Makkachin cuddles me.

My utter frustration wells up in me. Leaving was supposed to be the hard part. Yuuri was supposed to be _easy._ I don’t know what’s wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it. I hold my dog close and squeeze her until she huffs against my shoulder.

I’m not the kind of person who gives up easily, though. Just because I’ve only been good at one thing before doesn’t mean I’m surrendering.

There’s only one thing to do now: Try harder.

#

I try harder. Yuuri and I work out a training program to get him back on track for competition, and I attempt to diagnose the problem.

It’s been months. We didn’t talk. Just because I felt a lingering connection doesn’t mean he did, too. He could have moved on.

“Do you have a lover?” I ask him.

“No.”

“Former lovers?”

He blushes. He’s never talked about lovers in interviews before. He doesn’t now. “No comment.”

I exhale and smile through my annoyance. Fine. I can be patient.

#

Even my attempts at basic conversation fail.

“What is that up there?” I point.

“It’s a ninja house.”

“Wow! Ninjas? Really?”

Yuuri gives me a flat look. “No,” he says. “Not really.”

#

I hear his door open at eleven that night. The hallway creaks as he passes by. I grab a coat and follow after him.

He’s wearing jeans and a scarf, and he has a long, thick roll of glossy papers under his arm. He jumps as my door opens.

“Victor.”

Even in the dark, I can see the faint blush that spreads over his cheeks. I’m not sure what that blush means. Is he happy to see me? Is he anxious at being caught out?

I smile at him. “Hi.”

The return look he gives me is pained. He presses against the wall.

“Where are you going?” I ask, as if he’s not sneaking out in the middle of the night.

He shakes his head. “Nowhere.”

“What are you doing?”

He swallows. “Nothing.”

Ha. Caught in the act, whatever the act is. I suspect I’m about to find out the reason—or, perhaps, the person _—_ behind Yuuri’s reluctance.

“Great,” I say. “I’m coming with you.”

“That’s…not a good idea. I was…not going to be out for long. Quick trip. You should sleep.”

“I’m your coach,” I say. “You’re the one who needs to be resting. Sleep is an important part of training. Let’s make sure this doesn’t last long, okay?”

He heaves a sigh.

“Come on, Makkachin.” My voice is bright. “We’re going for a walk.”

Yuuri shakes his head in defeat. I follow him down the stairs. The moon is full tonight, and it casts a shimmering path across the ocean. I can’t help but dream of where it might take us. I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong. I’m not sure what changed between us. I have no idea how to make things right. I just know that things aren’t how I imagined. They’re not even close.

Makkachin is delighted by the idea of a near-midnight walk. She falls behind to sniff, and then bounds to catch up with us.

Yuuri still has that roll under his arm. He glances at me as we walk in silence. Finally, he sighs. “You’re mad at me. Is it because I was in poor condition when you arrived? I’m trying my best.”

I shrug. “I’m not mad.”

“Yes, you are,” he contradicts. “That’s your pissed-off smile. The one you gave that reporter who asked you why you couldn’t get anything better than a mutant dog.”

I can hear the ocean from here. Smell the salt spray. I’m not sure what to say to him. But it’s the first time since I’ve arrived that I feel like maybe I’m talking to the same man at the banquet.

“I don’t get mad,” I tell him.

Yuuri tilts his head and looks at me. “Sure.” He doesn’t sound like he believes me.

I try something else. “I don’t feel mad. It doesn’t do any good.”

“Sure,” he says again.

Time to change the subject. “What’s that you have under your arm?”

He chokes. “Nothing. Just some garbage I was going to throw away. Really. I was on my way to the recycling when you came out of your room.”

I waggle an eyebrow at him. “It’s porn, right?”

I didn’t think it was possible for him to blush any harder. But he does, his whole face turning red. He leaps away from me. “No! It’s not. It’s _nothing like_ porn.”

From his reaction, it’s _exactly like_ porn.

I take a step toward him. “Then you won’t mind if I look.” I reach.

We’re both swordfighters. His natural reflexes kick in. He shifts out of my way; I circle to the side.

I’m not sure I’d be able to grab hold of that roll under his arm if this were a fair fight, but his bundle is glossy and has no purchase against the sleeve of his sweater. It slips; he snatches at it. My fingers graze the edge of the paper, but he manages to knock my hands away. But he loses his grip.

The roll hits the street with a satisfying noise. The paper unrolls and blows in the wind. Yuuri makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“Oh _no.”_ His eyes squeeze shut.

They’re posters. I reach down to smooth out the nearest one.

My eyes look back at me. They seem clear and innocent in the moonlight. It’s me, but me ten years ago when I was first beginning to make a name for myself. My hair is long and blowing; my knees are bent, and I have a cocky smile on my face. My rapiers are crossed in front of me.

It’s me, back before everyone knew I was their ticket into politics. When I wanted to make a difference. It’s me before Jean-Philippe Poitier. I have a vague memory of how I felt the day this picture was taken. I felt strong, confident, in control. I was happy. I remember those emotions like an echo in a cavern. They reverberate and linger. But they’re not _real._ I haven’t felt real like that in years.

Yuuri shifts, and starts picking up the mess. The posters are me. They’re _all_ me. My mind blanks.

“Wow,” I hear myself say. “So this is why there are light spots on the wall of your room.”

“Yeah.” His shoulders hunch together.

I whistle thoughtfully. “And here I was worried that maybe you didn’t want me here.”

He just shakes his head. “In a way, I…don’t.”

I look over at him.

“I don’t want you here because you’re _grateful_ to me.” His words come out almost angrily.

Grateful? Does he think that’s what this is about? Does he not remember our insane banquet chemistry?

He’s so hot that maybe that’s what it’s like for him every time he meets someone. I contemplate this possibility with a wrinkle of my nose.

But he’s going on. “You act like you’re offering me a swordfighter’s favor for services rendered. And what services?” His voice is low. “I killed a man. Maybe it needed to be done. Maybe it wasn’t wrong. But it taints everything. You’re only here because of what I did to Bradley Evans. That poisons _everything.”_

His voice is shaking. His shoulders are shaking. I look over at him, and…

And oh my God. Yuuri. I’ve been hollowed out for so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to grapple with feelings. I’ve been thinking of Yuuri at the banquet, Yuuri in my dreams in the pool.

I haven’t been thinking of Yuuri on his knees in the sand after the match. The emotions he tried to drown with champagne.

I thought I was in love with Yuuri, but the truth is, I’ve only ever thought of what he would be to me. I’ve never thought of him at all.

I’ve been trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. I thought that all I had to do to get Yuuri to fall in love with me was find the right thing to say. But he is not a lock for me to undo. He’s a person, and he’s hurting.

As for me? I am a colossal ass.

He shakes his head. “How long did it take you to get over Poitier?”

I don’t know how to answer. “It wasn’t a big deal to me. It didn’t bother me. Not like that.”

He looks over at me. “Don’t lie to me,” he says for the second time that night. “Victor, you cut your hair afterwards.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. “It didn’t bother me,” I repeat.

Yuuri sighs.

“I’m not lying.” My words whisper out in the moonlight. “After that, nothing bothered me. I didn’t feel anything at all. It was like being inside a box. Maybe I had emotions, but they were outside the box. I was…in.”

I look down at the poster of me. God, I was so naive. So innocent. So willing to believe that all I had to do was try hard, and everything would turn out well. It was my heart’s desire to become Russia’s first world champion. To make everyone proud.

I just didn’t realize that my heart’s desire would cost me my heart.

Yuuri comes up to me. He picks up that poster, rolling it carefully, and hands it to me as if it were a quarterstaff.

“I’m glad I didn’t get rid of them,” he says. “Put that one on your wall.”

“Thanks.” I don’t think I’m ready to look at my younger self right now.

“Victor,” Yuuri says quietly, “I _am_ glad you’re here.”

I’m here because Yuuri needs a coach.

I think about his face when he said that Evans poisoned everything. I think about the blank, cold feeling inside me when I told him that Poitier never bothered me. I think about years of blank coldness.

I left Russia certain that I was in love with Yuuri. Now? Now, I want him more than ever—and I’m beginning to suspect that whatever I feel, it’s not love. It’s a hint of warmth in a cold, cavernous place. It’s a burst of attraction.

I don’t know what love is. But I’m determined to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is a really long chapter, so it took me a while to get through it. I have to admit that I can't help but make fun of Victor a little bit in this chapter. Episode 1 is so incredibly hilarious once you start guessing what he must have been thinking. :D
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to Victor!!! with Swords. I realized in the midst of writing this that (a) I had to reconfigure much of the middle of the fic, because hewing too closely to canon would be a problem, and (b) I just never do well writing everything out chapter by chapter.
> 
> What this means: It's gonna take me a good long time to update from here on out, but once I do get back to updating, it'll be because I have the fic completely written, so updates will be regular by then.
> 
> Thanks so much for your patience, and <3 <3 <3.


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